


Bathe In The Blood Of Our Bond

by orphan_account



Series: Mindless. [3]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Amputation, Anal Sex, Anal toys, Attempted Kidnapping, Body Worship, Bondage, Bruce Wayne is A Detective, Caffeine Addiction, Chronic Pain, Creepy Ra's al Ghul, Decapitation, Electrocuting, Electrocution, F/M, Gutting, Insomnia, M/M, Murder, Night Terrors, Obsessive Behavior, Oral Sex, Other, Overstimulation, Poisoning, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Praise Kink, Size Kink, Stalker, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Tim Drake is Not Okay, Tim Drake is Not Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, blood letting, like a lot of violence, murder type violence, removal of eyeballs and phalanges, serial killer au, skinning someone while they're still alive
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23243014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Tim felt his pulse leap as he fished out his fake I.D, holding it before the man in triumph as he repeated his well practiced line. "Jake Darby, homicide detective. Now I'll ask again, can I help you sir?" The man lifted his hand, long fingers encasing his wrist, inspecting the I.D closer before his eyes fell on Tim again, smile a bit sharper now; hungry. "You seem a bit young to be a detective, Mr. Darby. How old did you say you were, again?" He purred and cornered Tim into the adjacent wall and Tim instinctively tried to create as much room between them as possible, his coat bunching up at his nape as he sunk into the wall behind him, the hand rail digging into his lower back. "I didn't." The man was obnoxiously close and Tim could smell him, musky and like he had just woken up; like something spicy and rough. "Well it's only polite to provide such information when prompted, isn't it?" Tim tilted his head up further, trying to look larger as he responded "Are you threatening me, sir?"
Relationships: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake/Ra's al Ghul
Series: Mindless. [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1466107
Comments: 2
Kudos: 62





	1. A Detective In Training (Not Legally, But It Counts.)

No matter how many late night's in Gotham Tim's worked through, not one of them has ever seemed the same; whether it be a different robbery, a different break-in or gang fight, or anything Tim could think of, it was never the same night twice. Over and over again, sirens wail out through the distant streets as Tim hops from one building to another, climbing walls quick as a monkey and sailing down fire escapes for a sudden detour. As winter night's grow longer, the cold settling deep into his rattled bones, and the constant pain throughout his body deepens, he find more caffeine and pain killers in him than food or water. Of course, he knows he always loses weight when the colder season hits, but what does comfort matter anyway? His pain no longer hinders him, no longer bothers or slows him down, no longer pulls at his muscles to -

" _Oh god stop moving it hurts please stop make it stop-"_

No, it's more of a constant in his life now. Some days it's like the pain isn't even there, like it's a slight breeze from a window left open throughout the night. Other days he wakes and it takes everything in him to not scream and cry until his vocal cords are shredded and bleeding. Either way he wakes, showers and drinks his fair share of coffee and over-the-counter pain killers before he starts his day. Alfred, when a twelve-year-old Tim had first moved in, would come in every morning with breakfast on a tray and a "Good Morning, Master Timothy." But it had taken the elder only a few months to realize that the food Tim was presented with was barely ate, and that more often than not Tim was up before the butler had even begun the morning course.

At first, they had scheduled for Tim a specialized therapist to help with his night terrors and his startling lack of sleep, but by the fifth week of visits, the therapist stated she "Cannot help a patient who refuses to allow it." By then, Tim had decided the therapist was not worth his time, that she was an over-paid, under-educated woman he couldn't bring himself to communicate his troubles with if he published a picture book for her. And while he knew Bruce cared for and about him, he refused to see another shrink who wanted him to 'communicate his feeling with his words.' Just the thought of that made him want to gag. Throughout the first five months Tim had stayed with them, he had refused to speak; not on any principle of trauma, Tim always defends - _Although he knows deep inside that it was a lie, that he could barely function with the image of his mothers intestines spread across her pristine carpet she had taken so much pride in, couldn't sleep without hearing them scream-_ but he could not find any reason for him to want to speak. He did not want to strike up a conversation, so he did not; any question he was asked was a simple yes or no, so he answered those with a shake or a nod of his head. He already knew everything there was to know about Bruce - the man had been like another father since before Tim could remember- and Alfred had known Tim since the Drakes had brought him home from the hospital when he was born; a small, two-month premature thing that never found any reason to cry. Since Tim found no reason to speak, he didn't. For five solid months, up until Bruce's birthday was nearing. Within the five months Tim had been staying with them, five months of solemn looks and silent nights, five months since he had seen both his parents brutally murdered in their own living-room. It was after Tim had let Alfred bully him into assisting with Bruce's home-made birthday cake, the morning before the celebration was to happen, that Tim had asked him, very solemnly; "Please tell me you aren't planning to force me into a gala for your birthday."

And Bruce, having been sipping his first cup of coffee for the morning had frozen stiff, while Alfred parried without pause in his stride with- "I had assumed the young master was planning to hold up in his special little cave he created within the belly of the library." Bruce, having known Tim his whole life and therefore knowing he hated it when his accomplishments were blown out of proportion, cleared his throat of the coffee and spoke. "If you don't want to partake in a larger event, I can just call some friends in. We'll ask Jason and Dick to invite some friends over, too. Who knows, you might all get along, for once." Ah yes, Tim's brothers. Dick, at a young age of nineteen was currently training in the police academy; he was the one who had been training Tim not only in the moves he was learning from the academy, but the flourishes of grace and agility he had learned in the circus he had grown up in, before Bruce had adopted him. Tim knew Dick's whole story; Dick had been the only one in the household that never pressured Tim to speak or respond. Maybe it's cause Tim was Dick's own little vent system; Dick would stand there, teaching and instructing Tim into bends and stretches that contoured his body in a horrible looking twist of muscle and bones while telling his life story in-between instructions. 

"The circus was great," Dick started while he was helping Tim push his upper body down, knees framing his ears while his forehead touched the tops of his feet. "My ma and pops were the greatest acrobats the nation had ever seen! They could fly and make it look natural; it was like they grew wings. I would be on ground level, acting out my own feats, but they were always drawing everyones eyes, no matter what. They really were amazing." Dick pulled his body up and twisted Tim to the left and pushed his shoulders down, his back popping with the movement. Tim looked at Dick through his sweaty bangs to continue his story. "Anyway, one of the construction guys we were traveling with had been smuggling all these fancy drugs through our stops; I guess when the police finally caught him, they had assumed all his funds had gone to the circus and it's supplies, so they had shut the whole thing down while we were here, in Gotham, until they managed to find out where all the money had gone." 

Tim let Dick place his hand on the opposite hip so the stretch deepened, the tension in his sides loosening slowly. "While we were staying here, ma and pops left for the night, to go hang out with some friends for a few hours, reminisce on what they would do when they were younger, the acts they would do for the show. Anyway, on the way there, a drunk trucker had crashed into them." Dick released his left shoulder and moved to his right, touch light but firm as he listened carefully to Tim's breathing, making sure it wasn't hurting too much. Tim was looking up at Dick, seeing the small shine in his teary eyes, but his smile was still there, still bright. "Ma and pops died the moment of impact, but the trucker had been alive for another day or so before he died of complications; and I'm not going to say god can still work his magic every now and then, but...." Dick smiles again, tears gone as he releases Tim entirely, helping him stand up to his feet. "I'm lucky Gordon was the first on sight that day. After all, he's the one who introduced me to Bruce. And, well, you know most of the story from then on." 

And Tim did; he really did. He knew Dick had been brought into Bruce's home a traumatized young boy who only knew basic English, his thick Romanian accent still present when he get's excited or mad about something. Dick was enrolled into Gotham's most prestigious school, and after joining both it's cheer-leading team and acrobatic's team throughout elementary and middle school he became a favorite to the whole school board. He even started playing Volleyball and Baseball for his entire High-School career on-top of being a straight-A student with his cheer and acrobatics; he was scouted by every high class college, with full ride scholarships on a golden platter for him. He declined all of them though, and applied for the police academy the moment he turned 18. 

"Come on Timmy," Dick lead Tim from the training room in the lower level of Bruce's manor and down into the kitchen, tossing Tim a water bottle. Tim wrinkled his nose at the warm water, but drank his fill anyway; Dick's ruthless with his training, after all, and all that work leaves any man parched. Dick rolled his eyes at Tim's distaste for warm water and explained; "My grandfather used to say cold water shocks your system after working hard." Tim still rolled his eyes and emptied his water bottle, letting Dick trade his now empty one for a filled bottle. "Jason should be home any time soon, so go get showered and we'll see if we can convince Bruce to let us all chose desert together." Tim nodded once and left the kitchen, wiping the sweat from his forehead so it doesn't drip into his eyes as he made his way up the stairs. Showering quickly, he let the scolding hot water wipe away his sweat, rubbing shampoo into his scalp, he frowns; he needs a serious hair cut. No twelve year old boy should have hair past his chin. He drenches the ends of his hair in conditioner and washed his face before stepping out of the shower, wrapping his hips in a towel and drying off quickly. 

"Aye, Timmers!!" Jason had yelled loudly, stepping into the young boy's room without knocking, throwing a bag of _something (Tim later finds out it was a bunch of fancy coffee-chocolate bars Jason had found for him)_ onto Tim's bed as the boy himself pulled up a pair of sweats. "Man, today was fucken' rough." He flops down onto Tim's chair, next to his bookcase and sighed, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Tim frowned and kicked his older brothers shins, jumping back a little when Jason retaliated with his own kick, not even opening his eyes as he did so. Tim's frown deepened as he leaned over and plucked the half smoked cigarette from Jason's lips and snubbed it in an old cup filled with old water. "Aye! That's rude," Jason commented while Tim tried to wrench him from the chair. He bullied his older brother up and out of his room, shucking on a graphic T from his dresser and slammed his door shut. "I tried to tell you not to bother him; he hates it when someone interrupts his beauty routine." Jason snorted as Dick laughed at his own joke, both wincing and yelping when Tim stepped on Jason's foot while simultaneously elbowing Dick in the ribs.

Jason, Tim's second older brother, was sixteen and working for Bruce's family business, some big architecture company Bruce had inherited when his own parents were shot and killed in a failed robbery when he was also a younger boy. The three siblings tended to sit together and giggle like little school girls over the joke of "He's just makin' a little army of traumatized orphan boys." The joke carries out seeing as everyone in the house -Excluding Alfred, probably- was a sad orphan boy whose parent's were killed horrifically. Jason's mother was a drug addict who was shot by one of her dealers when she didn't have enough money to pay for what she's bought, and his father had custody of him until he got a hit set on him by one of the drug lords he had been working for.

That night had been the happiest nights Tim can remember; he and his brothers pestered their father until he caved and went out to get them all ice-cream. Afterwards they had all sat in the living-room for hours playing old video games and playing hide-and-seek. The day after, Dick had to go back out into the inner city for his police academy training, and Jason was rarely home and awake at the same time. That had left twelve year old Tim with himself and books to keep company. He'd train with what Dick left him knowing, and if he wasn't doing that he was listening into Bruce's phone calls, memorizing the details of the murder scene he was being called to. 

By the time he was thirteen Tim had solved three murder cases by only listening in to his father's work calls and taking a few moments to gather up what he knew and presenting it to his father in a way he knew would win any jury over. He always ended up in trouble over this, was scolded and told he had no business doing a professionals job, but that never stopped Tim. On his fourteenth birthday someone had apparently broken into some high societal members manor, disengaged the alarm system, ransacked their whole house and killed both the mother and father, and two twin little girls. Tim had snuck into his fathers car, holding his professional camera, a pen and a note book in his arms when he had caught the details he needed, laid down in the back seat of Bruce's car, breath shallow and body still as he could possibly make it. 

He had made it to the actual crime scene, camera tight in his hands as he waited for Bruce to get far enough away to leave the confines of the car. He slunk past crewmen and police men, detectives the hardest to avoid as he took photos and made notes as quickly and quietly as possible; he couldn't make his way into the house, not without being questioned, and he knew Bruce was going to start making his rounds throughout the scene once he was done with his debriefing with uncle Gordon, so he only had a small window of time before he needed to go hide. He'll probably lay low in the trunk, there's air conditioning and a release handle on the inside Tim had installed into all of Bruce's cars for instances just like this. He was circling the house, taking photos of the living room and bedrooms through the windows before he paused.

The window in the kitchen was busted, cracked wide open directly over the sink. Tim glanced through the shards of glass hanging from the framing and proceeded to force his own bile back down his throat. There, on the ground before him was the profile of a young, red haired woman. Tim could see her face, eyes open and jaw slack as she stared up at him, her throat torn open and drooling blood beneath her and soaking her hair, clothing turning a rusty brown as it dried. Tim clenched his eyes closed and jerked his head back, feet crunching on a large pile of glass beneath his feet. He took multiple deep breaths, as he's been taught, and slowly opened his eyes with a slow sigh; why was there so much glass on the outside?

Tim looked to the gate next to the side of the house, but it seemed too high to jump without assistance, and there wasn't anything close enough to help with the height. He glanced to the other side and noted that there was a neighbors house right there, but they were the ones who had called the police saying they heard screaming and cries; they would have seen someone jumping a gate and escaping. No figure was reported.

Then he was either still in the house, or out among them right now.

Tim jerked his head behind himself, and notice the tool shed placed neatly in the corner of the back yard; the lock on it was on the ground. Tim moved around the side of the shed, thankful the moon wasn't currently angled to cast his shadow, slightly on edge because- well, that door was too flimsy and gaped between each plank to keep him concealed carefully. He moved to stand beneath the window, to the right of the shed and aimed his camera high enough to peak into the interior without casting a shadow from the moon that now lay behind him. He clicked a photo and brought the camera back to his chest tightly, waiting for the photo to print out before making his quick, silent way from the shed. 

He ducked behind two trash cans and waited impatiently as the photo took it's careful, slow seconds to reveal the photo taken. He watched as the interior developed, the tool lining the wall and abandoned hoses and supplies sat rusted on the wall. He breaths a heavy breath and gently waves the photo around, hoping to speed the process up, wanting to see if he had caught anyone. Tim looks and doesn't have to wait long for the figure peeking out through the planks of the door, hunched down with dirty clothing covering his back and dark greasy hair hanging from his scalp.

He didn't even try to hide his gasp of surprise, jumping from his squat and running to where he could see Bruce speaking to one of the policemen. The police officer noticed him first, jerking his head back as Tim approached rapidly. "Hey, kid what the hell do you think-" Bruce himself turned around, imposing figure tensing up as his brows lowered while he watched Tim skitter to a stop before him, photo in hand.

"Shed!" He screeched, trying to keep himself quiet enough so the man in the shed couldn't hear him, handing the angry Bruce his now fully developed photo; he took only a moment to continue looking at Tim angrily before he glanced at the photo. He didn't move one inch for a soling three seconds, so Tim spoke once more, slightly louder and with more urgency. "He's there! Look! Glass on the ground, and- and the walls were either too high, or the neighbors would see him. He's in the shed, Bruce I swear." Bruce didn't even acknowledge Tim, had motioned to the other two officers near him to follow his lead. Tim watched from the furthest wall of the house as they cornered the shed, kicking the doors down and entering with force.

Tim heard scuffling, screams and threats before a gun shot rang out, deafening. 

Tim blocked out most of that night, but he knew the ride home had been silent and tense. Knew Alfred had given a solemn glance Tim's way before Bruce began tearing into him, scolding him for having taken such a large risk. "What if he had seen you? Or heard you? He had a knife in his hands when we kicked the doors down. If you had been just a slight bit less careful, you might not be here right now!" Tim huffs and says, steadily "I wasn't though! I knew he had to be somewhere on the property; I wasn't going to go traipsing through the whole place like some sort of dumbass!" Tim's face was red with shame and embarrassment, and he could hear Dick and Jason whispering at the top of the stairs while the two continued to yell at each-other. Bruce suddenly dropped down onto his knees, face angry and scrunched up, hair a mess as he nearly yelled in Tim's face; "You could have been _killed,_ Tim. Don't you understand? He was waiting for something like you to come upon him. God, if he had seen you..."

Bruce's eyes were shiny, and he took a deep, wet breath in before he leaned in closer and buried his head into Tim's shoulder, shuddering out a sob as he whispers out the first and only genuine plea he's ever heard Bruce say. "God, please Tim never do something like that again. I can't lose you, not now." And that had been that. Tim had hugged Bruce back, fighting tears of his own until Bruce had dismissed him to bed, eyes red and puffy. "Don't worry about being grounded, or anything. I'm not that mad about it, but- you scared me, Tim. Don't ever do anything like that again."

Tim proceeded to do things almost exactly like this, solving approximately twelve crimes in the next two years that had followed this incident. His hair had grown, now to his shoulders; he himself hadn't grown all that much, and whenever Jason and Dick stopped by they would insist Tim hadn't grown at all. He was lean and fast on his feet, useful when he needed to leave a crime scene before his father found out he was there. He used the agility and control Dick had trained into him and paired it with Jason's lessons of 'use your body, not your brute strength' to get himself out of a lot of sticky situation involving search dogs and nosy detectives.

Needless to say, Tim drake was functioning perfectly fine; sure, he was pale and thin. His clothes don't fit quite right and his body groans too much for his spry age of sixteen, and sometimes he has sudden, horrible moments of fear ( _Whether it be at the hands of a criminal he's stalking, or his own father discovering him at one of his crime scenes, doesn't really matter_ ) that would shake most ordinary people to their core, but he's fine. He's fine. This morning plans to be no different than all the other Gotham sun-rises he's lived through; he'll get into his room through his window, shower and change and lay down for a few hours and- hey, maybe he'll doze off a little before he wakes. This is his plan, and he assumed he'd end up following it just as he had every day for the past four years. But as he crept near the back area of Bruce's house, he halts at the open window, leading into Bruce's office. His deep baritone voice filtered through the screen, and Tim stopped to listen to him talk through his 'work only' phone he kept on his desk. "Yes, yes I understand. Where?......Fourth and....fifty-first. Got it. See you there, Gordon." 

Tim feels excitement crawl through his aching bones as he scrambled past the bushes lining Bruce's office and into his own room, crawling up the wall and through his open balcony doors to land on his feet silently. He brushed as much dirt and dead leaves off his coat as he could before hanging it up, shaking his hair out and removing his shoes before he stepped out into the hallway. He can see the light in the kitchen was on and could hear Alfred and Bruce speaking quietly. Tim creeps down the stairs and into the kitchen, where he see's the elder speaking to Bruce in hushed whispers. Tim crept along the corner quietly and made his way up to the doorway, hiding right behind Bruce's bulking figure; he had his night coat on his broad shoulders, and the coffee pot was half empty already, most of the liquid probably in Bruce's travel mug. 

"Please, make sure he stay's in his room for another few hours. You and I both know he's not doing very well, especially with it getting colder and all; stock up on some pain meds and his juice. He needs to be kept inside and warm, and make sure we schedule an appointment for his physical therapist next week." Bruce rambled as he drank his coffee, wrapping his scarf around his neck and packing the ends into the collar of his coat. "Of course, master Bruce." Alfred allows Bruce to lean in for a quick hug before grabbing his keys and quickly shuffling out through the garage door conjoined to the large, industrial kitchen. Without turning to him, Alfred speaks to Tim calmly; "before you go out to tail Master Bruce, Master Timothy, I suggest you grab a small something to eat. But do so quickly, or you won't catch up."

Tim smiles at Alfred and snatches a biscuit from the tray the elder was holding, dashing up the stairs and back into his room for only a brief moment, pulling his bike shoes on and pulling his less bulky jacket over his shoulders. He ran back down the stairs noisily, food gone and gave Alfred one quick hug before yanking his bike keys from the key bowl and darting out into the garage, where Bruce has only just left. His lights were still visible down the property road. Tying his hair back, Tim pulls his helmet over his skull and starts the bike, letting her bulky body warm up for a good moment before darting down the road and tailing his fathers car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm going to have to ask you to step back sir," Tim demanded, voice sharp and firm as he took hold of the taser, grip tight and knuckles white as he watched the man closely.
> 
> The man hummed and leaned in even closer, ignoring the younger's request, cornering Tim closer to the wall as he spoke; "You intrigue me, young detective." Tim's fake I.D was forgotten in the mans grasp, as his other hand came up to press against Tim's right hip, squeezing lightly. Tim didn't let the other mans advances affect him, physical manipulation useless on him but he could feel the man's warmth seep in through his black coat, felt it enter his bones as he responded.
> 
> "I'm not all that interesting, really; wrong place, wrong, time is all." He lifted his chin as the man's eyes shot back to his own, grip tighter as he leaned in so close Tim could feel heat wafting from his skin. 

Tim loves the rumble of the engine beneath him, the smooth glide and transition of switching lanes and streets in the dark of night, nearing early morning; it has it's own special feel to it, in a way. It was chilly and made his joints creak, stiffen up to a point of discomfort, but Tim always loves it. The sky was dark and the moon was just beginning to duck down over the buildings, the sun having not yet risen for the morning. Tim lost track of Bruce's car, but that was fine; he had plugged in the scene on his personalized computer system, connecting him with every home-made technological device he had. "You're turning left up here, Tim-Tim." Stephanie read out to him, the speaker in his helmet roared down to a dull hum as he switched lanes, careful of the impatient car behind him. The man he was in-front of laid down on his horn and Tim flinched, jerked a little and turned around slightly, raising his hand in exasperation. "What the fuck does he want, huh?" He asked Stephanie, who just hummed and offered, after a moment of silence, "Maybe he just really needs to take a shit; the laxative probably hit at like, the worst time ever."

Tim snorts as he take's the left, turning up into a parking-lot across from the large apartment complex, filled to the brim with police officers and detectives. He pulls up to a little alley way between the office building he was near and some bakery beside's it to hide his bike and helmet behind a dumpster carefully. He pulled out his small (and homemade) Bluetooth ear piece still connecting him and Stephanie and locks it in his ear; the thing was sleek and black with a small red wing in the center, capable of sending out a distress call if he's ever in _genuine_ trouble; he's only ever pressed it twice. "All secure, Steph?" Tim asks as he pulls the note pad and camera from his little compartment in the right side of his bike's body. He hears her hum her acknowledgement and shoves one of his other trackers into his jacket pocket, just to be safe. Tim also pulls out an I.D he might have illegally borrowed from Uncle Gordon's desk the previous week; the name " _Jake Darby."_ wasn't exactly well known around the G.C.P.D, and all Tim had to do was copy it and exchange the photo and- boom, now he's a new homicide detective transferred in from New York. He just need's to avoid the people familiar with his face and he's all set for the rest of the morning's 'illegal' investigation. 

He re-did his hair, out of his face in a messy bun at the base of his neck and crept up along the side of the office building he was hiding behind, creeping up the four stories before he attached his telephoto lens; brought his camera up to eye level, snapping pictures of a bloody sheet covering a body on a gurney, people at the scene being questioned, taking notes on people who seemed more suspicious as he watched their questioning through his lens. He looked over to the left, where he noticed Bruce was being debriefed by Uncle Gordon, and he asked Stephanie politely; "Think you can manage to tap into their phones, so I can hear what happened?"

"I'll try, just give me a second." She responded and the line was soon filled with static layered voices, the words hard to work out. "Can you clean the link up for me a bit?" He requested. "Well not everyone has such wonderful hearing like me, I suppose." Steph did as she was asked though, and soon enough Tim managed to catch the words they were exchanging. 

"-So no one managed to catch him on the third _or_ the fourth floor cameras?" Tim heard his father ask.

"No, they all just went -blank. Like they were shut off; but the security officer on the first floor level called it in and went to see what had happened and found- well, you know." His uncle responded, and Tim could hear him inhale a large lung-full of smoke from his cigar. "And no one else on the floor had seen or heard anything? At all?" Bruce asked and Tim watched Gordon shake his head no. "No DNA, no footage, no reports; nothing. It's like he was killed by some ghost. I've never seen anything like this." Gordon admitted and Bruce sighed, rubbing his forehead with a rough hand. Tim jotted down the info with his left hand messily, not moving his eyes from the two as they continued to talk. 

no finger-prints, wearing gloves? No witnesses, jammed cameras. Accomplice or great tech. third or fourth floor, dead victim, possibly more. No witnesses, could be someone else in building? No murder weapon to be seen or noted, no body to examine. 

Tim took another few photos of everyone before requesting Steph to cut the connection as he gathered his things and crawled down the fire escape, leaping down the last few steps and into the alley way silently. He crept up closer to the site and avoided familiar faces with the collar of his jacket, making it into the building within two minutes. He had been stopped by one new police officer, but a quick lie through the teeth and a flash of his badge got him through. There were even more officers inside, and Tim felt apprehension creep through his spine as he made quick work of the lobby and up through the stairwell. There were clean up crew members running up and down the stairs, not even sparing a second glance Tim's way as he ran up the stairs to the fourth floor.

The stairwell door was propped open, the hall filled with officers and crime scene investigators, two doors open and crossed with multiple lines of police tape. Tim straightened up his back, walked with a longer stride and grasped the camera in his hands tightly; time to have some fun, then.

* * *

He's made it down the hallway at a slow pace, jotting things down in his little booklet and taking photos of blood splatter patterns, of the disabled camera's in the corner of the hall, and of the victims bloody hand prints as it seems they tried to escape their attacker; Tim could see the hurried movements as the hand smeared blood against the off-white paint. Could imagine as they tried to beg for their life while their faceless attacker crept up on them, emerging from their own home as he ends their life brutally, one quick swipe of some sort of blade and their troubling night ends far quicker than it had started. Tim glanced down the hall, following the blood trail through the doorway and into the room.

It, too, was filled with officials; but Tim didn't recognize anyone in the room, so he let his guard drop slightly as he maneuvered throughout the lush apartment. The window's in the living room were still locked, but that didn't really mean anything to Tim; they could have just slipped in and eliminated a possible exit route for their victim. Tim watched as the curtains hung, stiff and lifeless and most importantly, black. A solid black presence where everything else in the room was white; sleek and well organized. What rich person bought black-out curtains? Tim had just always assumed that was for people like him, tired and restless and just as wary of daylight as he was the dark cover of night. 

_A man walking through his apartment, content; opening his fridge to just grab a midnight snack when he glances to his left, out through his newly opened kitchen window_ -Tim had taken note of when he stepped into the bloody white-tiled kitchen _. He tries to react but isn't fast enough, a knife slices through his upper right arm like a hot knife through butter. He tries to scream but a hand shoots out and smashes against his mouth, cracking and knocking out teeth with it's ferocity._

_The man turns, breaks his attackers grip and tries to run but again, isn't fast enough; the knife now slides along his back and cuts through his sleep shirt, deep into muscle and an artery. Blood falls in rivulets down his skin as he trips over his own feet, making it out into the hallway on his hands and knees. He looks up and inhales deeply, ready to scream his heart out while pushing up to his feet, using the wall to support him. His voice catches in his throat as he see's another tenants eyes staring back at him, pale and flat; devoid of life. The woman two doors down the hall was laying across the floor, blood splattered across the wall to her right, neck open and muscles still twitching in the aftermath of her death._

_The man tries to find his voice but is unable to, croaking out a whimper before the attacker is once more upon him, hand under his jaw and violently wrenching his head up, blade slicing across taut skin before letting the man fall._

Tim analyzes the still open fridge, to the window and out through the large kitchen door; this man was rich enough to have some sort of personal security system; why didn't he? _Maybe he did,_ Tim responded to his own thoughts, _but our attacker was just too good._ He felt a cold shiver move up his spine slowly, invisible eyes watching him, on him. He felt them trail up and down, head to toe and back. He felt like a lab rat and he didn't know why; it was absolutely _infuriating._ He tossed cold, angry eyes to the wall at his back, a photo hanging from the wall; a beach, with the sun beneath the waves and casting bright light across calm waves. _The calm before the storm._

Tim snapped out of his thoughts and turned to the officer closest to him swiftly, asking with authority; "Do you know if our victim had any alarm system?" The young man -still older than Tim by at _least_ seven years- stumbled on his words for a moment before gathering himself and responding, stiffly. 

"He did, but no breech was detected. It was like our guy just appeared, killed out victims and then vanished. Like magic, almost." Tim snorted and waved his thanks, jotting more things down on his notebook before exiting the kitchen. Tim brought his camera out and took another handful of photos, capturing angles from all the windows and the point where he believed the act began -right in-front of the fridge, from the right where his victim was standing. That was the oldest blood spill, and the most forward attack through the altercation. 

Tim felt eyes on him as he captures the blood smeared along the walls, hand prints and broken lamps along the wall where the victim probably tried to push himself up while trying to escape. Tim deemed his examination of the scene clear enough and left the apartment for the room two doors over, avoiding the pools of blood where the two strangers shared their last moments. He noted how empty the hall had become, that the officers had either filtered in to the crime scenes or left down into the lobby to help crowd and questioning control. 

"Tim-Tim," Stephanie spoke, nearly startling the teen as he tried to lift the camera for a quick cursory glance of the next apartment, "You'd better hurry with this next room; Bruce is making his way up the stairs now." Tim rolled his eyes and let his shoulders hunch for a moment before peeling off from the wall and deeper into hallway,Stepping into the second apartment. This one was so different than the previous; it was messy and glass from pots and vases lined the carpeted floor. A clear struggle, from the look of broken furniture and bloodied glass shards. 

Tim walked up the stairs of the apartment and into her bedroom- which was- a really big mistake. Tim will end up scarred for life now. The window next to her bed was open, just barely. Fingerprints were on the lower panel of the glass and Tim nearly jumped for joy, were it not for the voices he could hear in the lower area of the apartment. He glances back to the bed and shivers; the sheets are messy and the room stank of stale sex. Upon glancing at the object next to the bed Tim feels his gag reflex trigger when he notices the small purple thing, still buzzing lightly through the air. Tim feels a small amount of pity to the poor unfortunate soul that has to bag that thing up as evidence.

He takes photos of the window and it's finger print in detail before grabbing his (again, home-made) tape he had developed himself; it copies the imprint of the fingerprint through oil absorption and leaves him with a carbon copy of the fingerprint without damaging the one for the police to find- if they do. Tim doesn't doubt his father will notice it and take his own copy of the print, destroying it on the process. 

Tim looks through the room and see's the hole in the wall, right where the door handle lands- what rich person throws their door open that violently? They're too pristine and well-mannered to do that.

She's obviously had sex with someone -Tim shudders, again- and if his own suspicion is correct, it's their victim two doors down. 

Cheater? one married other divorced. X-wife angry? Hired hit-man?

Tim scribbles his thoughts into his little note-book before closing it and tucking it into his pocket, eyes tracking movements through the room. 

_She had walked the man out into his own apartment, left everything on the bed. Once she had left the killer had come in through the window, but was he hanging from something?_

Check roof tomorrow.

_He enters the room and waits somewhere, probably in the closet. She comes back in and closes her door right as the man steps out. By the blood on the floor he had swung out at her then, and she grabbed the vase to her left and threw it before opening her door so violently it bounced off the wall._

_The killer chased her down the stairs and threw her into her glass coffee table, shattering it and impaling her back with the glass shards. She crawls away, glass in her hands and pushes to her feet, throwing what ever she can as she makes a break to the front door. She throws an old wooden stool where she must tie and un-tie her shoes, and it breaks across the killers chest. She is bleeding out, stabbed in the back and glass embedded all over her skin. She opens the front door and tries to stumble out, but just before she makes it into the hall way the killer grabs her hair and slide his knife through her neck, killing her in moments._

_She fell forward and into the hall, where her lover is to find her minutes later._

Tim takes more photos of the living room, ignoring the curious glances from police officers and the other detective in the room before hustling the hell out of there; he can hear his fathers voice in the room over. He leaves the apartment and moves swiftly down the hall and past the one his fathers in, blocking the side of his face with his jackets collar while he opens the door to the stair well, walking downwards.

Half way there and Tim hears someone behind him, rustling of clothing and suddenly, a man stepping right into Tim's personal space. His face presses into the mans chest for a moment before Tim apologizes as he steps back and moves forward, around the man. But he moves in-front of Tim, and again as he tried to step around this new obstacle. "Can I help you, sir?" Tim frowned up at the man; he was obnoxiously tall, with salt and pepper framing his stern mouth and a head full of black hair. The man smiled, eyes sharp as he cooed down at Tim, ignoring the teen's question. "And who exactly are you, young man? I don't believe I've had the _pleasure_ of seeing you around here before." 

Tim felt his pulse leap as he fished out his fake I.D, holding it before the man in triumph as he repeated his well practiced line. "Jake Darby, homicide detective. Now I'll ask again, can I help you sir?" The man lifted his hand, long fingers encasing his wrist, inspecting the I.D closer before his eyes fell on Tim again, smile a bit sharper now; hungry. "You seem a bit young to be a detective, Mr. Darby. How old did you say you were, again?" He purred and cornered Tim into the adjacent wall and Tim instinctively tried to create as much room between them as possible, his coat bunching up at his nape as he sunk into the wall behind him the hand rail digging into his lower back. "I didn't." The man was obnoxiously close and Tim could smell him, musky and like he had just woken up; like something spicy and rough. "Well it's only polite to provide such information when prompted, isn't it?" Tim tilted his head up further, trying to look larger as he responded "Are you threatening me, sir?"

The man only looked down at him, smile no longer as large and present on his face, but eyes just as sharp, a poisonous green against Tim's steel blue. Tim held his ground and stood taller, his chest brushing against the other mans as he brought his hand down to the taser at his right hip; the man's eyes flitted down for a moment, watching his hand before he glanced back up, face no longer seeming amused and entertained, but hard and cold. "I'm going to have to ask you to step back sir," Tim demanded, voice sharp and firm as he took hold of the taser, grip tight and knuckles white as he watched the man closely.

The man hummed and leaned in even closer, ignoring the younger's request, cornering Tim closer to the wall as he spoke; "You intrigue me, young detective." Tim's fake I.D was forgotten in the mans grasp, as his other hand came up to press against Tim's right hip, squeezing lightly. Tim didn't let the other mans advances affect him, physical manipulation useless on him but he could feel the man's warmth seep in through his black coat, felt it enter his bones as he responded.

"I'm not all that interesting, really; wrong place, wrong, time is all." He watched as the mans eyes left his own and trailed down to his neck, then his chest. Tim lifted his chin as the man's eyes shot back to his own, grip tighter as he leaned in so close Tim could feel heat wafting from his skin. "I need to have my I.D back now, sir." Tim demanded and held his hand out, eyes narrowed in the mans own.

"Oh, of course; my mistake Mr. Darby." He gives it back slowly, hand dragging along Tim's own slowly; Tim felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end, danger present in this man's lax stance. "Let me by, sir." The man took one step back, still very little room between the two, but enough for Tim's frame to squeeze through by dragging his body along the other man's. Tim shivers and continues his long strides, refusing to give the old _creep_ the satisfaction of watching his reaction.

Tim bursts from the stair well and out into the lobby, hurrying past officers and suspects, out into the cool street. The sun was just beginning to rise up over head, glass reflecting the morning light like blazing flames. 

Tim mounts his bike with no trouble, shooting off into the distant road work while Stephanie chatters his ear off to fill the silence; she hates the quiet of Tim's thoughts.

* * *

"Do you have any record of that man in the stair well?" Tim asks Stephanie once he makes it back into his room, laying his camera out on his bed as he uploads his photos to his laptop. His note book was open on his last few pages, random thoughts and suspects names scrawled across the paper in nearly ineligible ink. His room was darkened, his only source of light coming from the screen of his laptop and the light from his bathroom; his black-out curtains were drawn together and he's turned off every single light in his room. 

"I have profile photos of him from our incident," Steph starts as she brings up a blurry pic of the tall frame up onto his laptops screen, "But none in the building before or after our incident. He also did not allow the security camera's in the stair well capture his face." Tim grunts his acknowledgment of her run down before dragging his hands through his hair, pulling his long strands out of his face. "So he's not a resident of the building?"

"No, it seem's he appeared just for that moment and then he vanished. It's like a magic trick, but the only audience was you. There are no records of him entering the building from the lobby, or of him entering an apartment."

Tim paces from one end of his room to the other, thoughts flying through his head; "So when he entered the stair well, the camera's didn't catch him? Pull up level four's security feed two minutes before the incident." Tim jumps onto his bed, watching as the feed popped up.

Officers, suspects and investigators pop in and out of the doorway, but none match. Tim watches, after a moment, as he himself enters the door and begins his descent to the lobby. He watches, eyes straining for the white button up and black pants of his tall stalker, but none come up. There's a few men, all very tall, but one's wearing a police officer uniform and the other two in large jackets, one a light blue and the other brown; his father and Uncle Gordon had been moments away from seeing Tim at the crime scene. 

He watches the feed a few more times, those two minutes on a loop until- wait. 

"Pause it. Zoom in on the police uniform, right there." The man's name tag was visible as he held the door open for the two detectives, his face hidden by a high winter collar and a hat. But his name tag read " _J. Avery."_ Now Tim knew for a fact James was a large man, for sure; but he had retired three months ago, at age fifty-three. He knew, because he and his brothers had been brought along to the officers retirement party.

Tim frowns and drags his nails through his scalp, pulling his strands behind his ears and leaning in closer to the screen. This is definitely not James' figure he was looking at right now; James was far too barrel chested and built to throw shit like hay-bales or something. This body he's looking at right now is not the one he was used to seeing from the elder cop; yes, the man he's looking at was tall and with wide set shoulders, but without the heft of age and stress assisting in the widening of the elder man's waistline. 

The man is certainly his stalker alright; he watches as he opens the door for his father and Uncle Gordon, the two detectives going up the flight of stairs while Tim's stalker makes his way down, the door closing before he rounds the turn of the stairs. But what Tim needs to figure out right now, is how the man got his hands on a retired cops uniform. He stares at the screen, Steph still replaying the clip for him as he sit's there thinking, frame still and mind erratic as he began his process. 

Tim planned to sit there for a good long while, until he managed to piece together this jumble of question with no answers, but his plans were ruined when he heard the knocking from his room's door. "Tim!" Jason's voice ground out from the hallway, "Hurry the hell up dude, coffee's made and food's done; Alfred made those kick ass biscuits earlier this morning and I'll even let you have the first one if you're quick about it." Tim jerked up from his bed and made quick work of the lock on his door, swinging it open. 

"Jesus birdy," Jason commented, scrubbing a hand through Tim's hair to the base of his neck, leading him out of his door way and into the sunlit halls. "You're lookin' a bit worse for wear recently; takin' all your pain med's and shit?" Tim nodded -ya know, like the little bitch liar he is. Alfred had already done his morning routine, as all windows were revealed and drapes tied back securely, letting the sunlight in. Tim squints and protests vaguely, until Jason places sunglasses on the bridge of his nose. "Little fuckin' vampire, I swear." 

Tim made it down the stairs and into the large dining room, where plates were already set and food spread along the dark wood table. Tim feels his stomach rumble as he sits down next to Bruce's place and Jason across from him. "Master Dick will be joining us promptly." Alfred said as he placed a large mug of coffee before Tim and Tim will admit, he'd be willing to kill almost anyone for Alfred. Simply because the man doesn't question Tim's logic, he's never tried to stop Tim's own investigations, and he has never treated him like he's different from anyone else in the house; everyone at some point, had seemed like they were walking on eggshells around him. Especially when he was younger. Tim appreciates that, even then, Alfred never did that to him.

Tim seem's to jump to attention when Bruce filters in through the main area and into the dining room, and now here's Tim's problem of the day; don't act suspicious. Tim forces himself to relax and gazes deep into his mug of straight black coffee, like it'll help him blend in. He listens as the chair Bruce sits in is pulled back, legs squealing across hard wood flooring and the dining-room is suddenly silent. 

"So I heard Dick's coming over for the day; any special reason?" Tim questioned and-fuck. Now Bruce is looking at him kinda funny and shit Tim's gonna blow his own cover before lunch. He hate's this part of his day(not)job. He's great at lying on the spot, to people who've never met him or haven't lived with him for the past four years. But his father is not only the one whose been raising him, he's one of the best fucking _homicide detectives in the U.S_. How the hell is Tim expected to keep a tight secret from a man who figures out who murdered who by their body language!?

"Dick's coming in from Bludhaven's police department to celebrate you're birthday; remember?" Ah fuck.

July already? It was, like, April just a few days ago wasn't it?

"Time's moving too fast for me; as far as I know it's still April fifth." Tim swallows some coffee and let's Alfred place a large spoonful of scrambled eggs on his plate, closely followed by homemade sausage links and honeyed biscuits. 

"So what'd you get called out into earlier? Heard ya rummaging around 'fore you left." Jason asks as he take's a giant bite of the sausage link, mouth full as he speaks around the food. "Don't talk with your mouth full." Bruce says absentmindedly as he himself shovels eggs into his own mouth. "And there was a call earlier this morning." Tim let's his eyes flicker up and to Bruce, before he brings them back down to his plate, forking at the eggs. "So? You catch the dude? Figure anything out?"

Just as Jason asked his question, the front door rang out as it was slammed. "Hey everyone! I'm here!!! And I brought a bunch of cool stuff for you guys!" Tim and Jason both look up at each other for a moment, before Jason shoves the rest of the eggs into his mouth as Tim takes one small bite of his sausage before they both jump from their seats, running out to greet their older brother. Tim thanks whatever is listening to him for the distraction, and hey- he get's to see his older brother. Double-whammy.

"He's gotten better," Bruce comments to Alfred as he listens to Tim ask Dick seven different questions at once. Tim has launched himself off of the floor and onto Jason's back when he took one of Tim's gifts -a white coffee mug that had 'Souls of the innocent' written in a black, tar looking text- in his hands. Tim wrestled the mug from his brothers grasp as Dick snorted at them both, gifts dropping from his arms and sprawling across the floor.

"Indeed he has, Master Bruce." 


End file.
